


In the Company of Cowards

by undun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Grief, M/M, Reichenbach-I'm not finished yet!, Romance, Self-Harm, Slash, blogfic, not s3 compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I feel like a coward doing this, though. I’m not declaring myself publicly, I’m not acknowledging anything, even post-mortem. But that’s okay. There’s a lot of us around. I’m in good company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Still processing The Reichenbach Fall. This could take a while.
> 
> Extra: TW for chapter 5 specifically and mind the 'self-harm' in the tags. And if you feel you might be vulnerable right now to negative self talk and abject misery, pass on by and take care of yourself.
> 
> As of series 3, no longer canon compliant.

1.

 **Post entry to** _MANICMEDIC_

I don’t know why I thought this would be a good idea. I don’t think I did. It didn’t have to be good, just an idea. Something that might help me stop spending hours staring into space, stop watching people’s lips moving and not understand a word they’re saying to me.

 

I feel like I’m losing my mind. (Ha. You would say my mind wouldn’t be a huge loss, mediocre as it is.)

 

So, here I am with my anonymous blog, as anonymous as I can make it anyway. I don’t use it at home, so the ISP can’t be tracked back to me. I used a stupid name so a search won’t find me. (You would have found it within five minutes, wouldn’t you?) And I can write anything I want, anything at all.

 

I really want to, it’s just that… I don’t think I can. I spent all that time pushing it down, deep inside, hoping it would wither and die in the dark. I’ve conditioned myself so well to deny everything, deny myself. (Deny you.) I couldn’t even say it out aloud to Ella. My throat closed, my teeth clamped together.

 

Because. Because, now. Now it’s all too late. So why? What is the point in saying anything? Why write it down anywhere, even anonymously?

 

Because if I don’t… if I don’t get it out, broadcast it in some way, even to an audience of zero, I will go mad. I know I will. I can feel my thoughts tearing apart every day, like so much soggy newspaper.

 

I feel like a coward doing this, though. I’m not declaring myself publicly, I’m not acknowledging anything, even post-mortem. But that’s okay. There’s a lot of us around. I’m in good company.

 

Well, I’m in company anyway. Not much good to be had in it.

 

There’s Mycroft, of course. I have no words for him. I can’t let myself dwell on him for too long. It’s complicated. I despise him (but I know how much he loved you). Greg. I feel sorry for Greg, but I’m angry as well -- he could have done so much more and I know he never believed the disinformation. (He could have defended you openly, shut down the rest of them. Something, anything. Sally Donovan has been gunning for you for as long as I’ve known her, so I don’t consider her a coward, just a vindictive bitch.) Anderson is a malicious idiot (and despised you because you knew it and didn’t hide the fact) and would follow Donovan’s lead because that’s all he does: follow. Can I blame Kitty Riley for believing Moriarty’s lies? I do. Maybe she isn’t to blame – Moriarty was very good, very believable as Brook-the-innocent-actor-exploited-by-madman, but she didn’t even stop to listen to us. She was so sure of herself that she wouldn’t consider the alternative. (What did you do to her, Sherlock?)

 

I put myself in their company. Not because I believed Moriarty – never, not even for a second – but because maybe I should have said something. If I had been braver, if I’d admitted my–

 

(Maybe if I had, maybe you wouldn’t have jumped.)

 

If, if, if.

 

(Would it have stopped you? Would it have been enough?)

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

2.

 

 **Post entry to**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

I had another dream last night. It doesn’t happen every night, thank God, but at least three nights out of seven I’ll be back on that path watching the madly flapping coat as he plummets down. That feeling. That awful wrenching, twisting _horror_ …

 

Then I wake up. Shattered into a thousand pieces. I spend what’s left of the night putting myself back together. Some of the pieces don’t fit any more.

 

(I just wanted to hold you, watch you breathe – I was sure that you would. Your eyes were open then, unblinking at the sky. Blink. Please!)

 

 

 **Post comment to**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

You wouldn’t know how to be a coward. Protecting yourself isn’t cowardly. Watching your friends suffer, watching injustice and doing nothing to prevent either, that is the act of a coward.

 

Your dreams obviously stem from a deep sense of loss. You grieve for your friend. Perhaps he was more than a friend – you seem to hint at that in your posts. There is no shame in having these feelings. You are an emotional man. Also a brave one.

 

 

 **Reply to comment at**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

Who the fuck is this? How did you post here? The comments are disabled.

 

If it’s you, Mycroft, then you need to piss off immediately.

 

 

 **Reply to comment at**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

Not Mycroft.

 

 

 **Reply to comment at**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

Really not impressed by your hacking skills. This is a private blog and I resent the intrusion. You are posting here anonymously without permission. There’s nothing to see here but the inside of my head and that isn’t a very pretty view right now, so piss off.

 

 

 **Reply to comment at**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

I’ve always been fascinated by the inside of your head, despite its mediocrity.

 

 

 **Reply to comment at**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

For the last time, fuck OFF!

 

 

 **Reply to comment at**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

I want to read your posts and respond to those that interest me. Why won’t you let me do that? I could help you find the answers you seek. You obviously need someone to listen.

 

 

 **Reply to comment at**   _MANICMEDIC_

 

Fuck this. I’m deleting this blog. Have a nice life, or maybe not.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

3.

 

 **Post entry to**   _doctoredevidence_

 

I have a new blog and hopefully no hacker hanging around to hassle me. It’s probably stupid and pointless, but I’ve been trying to function for nearly three weeks since I deleted the last blog and it hasn’t been an unqualified success. I made a mistake at work yesterday and if Sarah hadn’t looked over my shoulder at the prescription at just the right moment it would have been a disaster. Bless her for keeping it quiet.

 

I can’t go on like this. I need an outlet – I need to get some sort of closure, anything. So. Here we are again, in an empty room and screaming soundlessly at the walls.

 

The dreams haven’t stopped. I have different ones sometimes. God. So different. I’m not trying to deny anything anymore. I think it’s opened the floodgates. It’s wonderful while I’m dreaming – I feel great, excited. Then I wake up and remember everything. That’s the time when I can feel the pull the strongest. I’ve put my gun in a box and given the key to Mrs H. I’m afraid of my impulses at those moments. It feels like there’s no one else awake in the world but me – no one else suffering the pain that I am. It’s blatantly untrue; I’ve seen enough suffering in my time to know that, but this is about feelings. Logic just doesn’t apply.

 

I’m getting better at hiding my pain. People aren’t ringing and texting me so much. It means I have more time alone – something I was craving a few weeks ago, and now I don’t know what to do with it. I’m tired all the time but I only sleep when I’m exhausted. (Is this what it was like for you? Running until your legs gave out. I remember catching you as you slid down the wall once.) I walk ridiculously long distances just to fill in time. I can feel my leg wanting to buckle under me occasionally, but I force myself to keep going (I won’t lose the very first gift you gave me).

 

Harry wants me to move in with her. My first reaction was absolutely not, then I looked around at this place, having moved into it without really noticing what a dump it was, and I’m wondering whether I should take her up on the offer. It would be further to travel to work, but I could look for something closer to her flat I suppose. Honestly, I’ll probably end up staying here. I don’t want to be too far away from…

 

I don’t really know. I want to stay close to Baker Street but I can’t bear to live there now. I want to stay close to Bart’s but I never visit Molly. I want to walk past NSY but I never go up and see Greg. I hover close to everything that used to be a part of my life, but I can’t connect with any of it. I feel like a ghost, shouting and kicking and no one can hear me.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

4.

 

 **Post entry to**   _doctoredevidence_

 

I think this is helping. God knows how, because when I look back at the words I’ve written they’re all hopeless and desperate, and I can remember the feelings vividly. I still have those feelings every day. But I feel like someone’s listening. Obviously no one is – there’s no sign of my hacker. (Hah. I was your blogger and for a moment he was my hacker.) (I’m still your blogger. I’ll be your blogger for the rest of my life, even if I never write another word about you.)

 

I’m managing at work. Some days are better than others. There are days I go in after no sleep the night before. On those days I’ll tell Sarah and ask her to double check any scripts I write. It’s the only way I feel I can stay at the clinic and not endanger anyone.

 

I should probably quit, but if I go back on an army pension I’ll lose the flat. I’ll lose London.

 

I can’t lose this city (as well as you).

 

I’ve seen some graffiti. It says ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’. The first one I saw made me think that Moriarty was still alive. I felt a sharp jolt, a pain in my chest. I wondered if it might be a heart attack. But no, I would’ve been on my knees. (It was just the shock of seeing your name on the wall. It felt like seeing my own name up there, because I think of you as mine.)

 

(It’s good that some out there think that you are genuine. Were genuine. That’s the trouble, isn’t it? All too fucking late.)

 

I’m going to the cemetery this weekend. With all this graffiti nonsense I need to make sure the gravestone has been left alone. I couldn’t take that, I really couldn’t. I don’t go there often – four times over seven weeks isn’t often, is it – but it is sacred to me. It’s the only place I can find words, where I can speak about myself and what I’m going through without my throat closing up so tight I can’t breathe.

 

Will this get better?

 

 

 **Post entry to**   _doctoredevidence_

 

I’ve just come back from the cemetery. I’ve been gone so long. I haven’t eaten anything but I’m not hungry. My appetite isn’t good. I didn’t want to leave the gravesite. This isn’t healthy. (I know I need help, but I feel close to you when I’m there.)

 

Should I go and see Ella? I won’t be able to say anything. I’ll just sit there and stare at the floor. She’ll look at me with the look of total understanding with no understanding of what I can’t say. (Or maybe she does know. Maybe she knows that I loved you. Maybe she knows better than me what I was so afraid of. Why I hid everything, denied everything. What a fucking idiot I was!)

 

I love a dead man. I had all that time with him and I didn’t say anything to him. I didn’t know I had a deadline. I thought I could sort out my feelings, rationalise them away like so much useless emotional clutter. (I was allowed to care, I was allowed to be your best friend, but damn it – I wasn’t bloody  _gay.)_  All that denial for the sake of appearances.

 

(You were right. I am an idiot.)

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Self-harm and suicidally apathetic thoughts.

5.  
  
 **Post entry to**   _doctoredevidence_  
  
I did something really stupid. I knew it was stupid while I did it. I saw soldiers doing it while I was on tour and thought they were being stupid. I thought I understood them, I thought I knew why they were hurting themselves. What I really thought deep down was that they were emotionally immature. Fragile, despite all the muscle and strength. God, what an arrogant twat I was – I knew fucking  _nothing_  about real pain. No, not the kind that comes from a bullet, a landmine, shrapnel, or any of the varied methods we have of maiming each other. I mean the kind of pain you can’t escape from, like it’s deep down in every cell of your skin; your vital organs are riddled with it like a malignant cancer.  
  
Now I know. I’m stupid with it. I have a new scar.  
  
The thing is, it made me feel better – the pain does help. And when I look at it I feel like I’ve earned it in some way, like my suffering has been acknowledged.  
  
Yeah, it’s all wrong and I need help. But, I can’t talk, I really can’t. (I think… it’s as if my suffering is all I have left of you. I can’t bear to part with it because what else is left?)  
  
  
 **Post entry to**   _doctoredevidence_  
  
Okay, no real surprise that I have an infection. Hah. Not just stupid, but a right prat. I know how to treat wounds, I know how to disinfect and dress them. I used my service knife and only gave it a very quick clean. And I didn’t want to put stitches in afterwards. I wanted it to scar me. This is why doctors should probably  _not_  treat themselves, especially when they are in the state I’m in.  
  
I’ve done a pretty good job cleaning out the wound – too late now for stitches – and I’ve started a course of antibiotics. I should be a lot better in twenty-four hours. Taking the day off tomorrow. Told Sarah I had a bad curry.  
  
Feel spectacularly woozy. Out of it.  
  
Go home, sit down on the sofa with a bottle of water, watch the telly. That’ll do.  
  
  
  
 **Post entry to**   _doctoredevidence_  
  
I seem to have a fever. I shouldn’t be posting here on my laptop, should use net café down the road, but can’t satnd up just now. I just want to caht to you, my invisible friwnd. Haha. I did take some paracetamol. Tried to splash water on myself. Have to keep the dressing dry, cant shower. I’m a bit of a mess.  
  
(And yes, Sherlock, I am an idiot. I’m an idiot because I love you and you’r dead and I’m still here and I can’t bear it and how about I just let this happen, hm? Get septicemia, let nature take its course because I don’t want this any more I don’y want all this fucking regret this fucking pain that I pissed away the very best thing Ive ever had in my life because I was afraid of your fucking DICK. Why??? I tried to wank yesterday, I was thinking of you. Gave me such a masivve headache I gave it up, hahh. You were always my headache and I used to worry aboyt you and nag you and feed you and try to get you to sleep more. Would you have slept more if we had had sex do you think Would that have slowed your mighty brain down at all?)  
  
I haven’t felt this hot since Afghanistan. Fuck me I selt tha right. Hahaa.  
  
Well if this is the last thing I ever write, let every body know that I’m in love with Shelock holmes and he is dead and I might just join him. We’ll see how that goes, shall we/=?  
  
  
 **Post comment to**   _doctoredevidence_  
  
Are you there, Doctor? Please answer this comment as soon as possible.  
  
  
  
 **Post comment to**   _doctoredevidence_  
  
John! Are you there?  
  
  
  


 


	6. Chapter 6

6.  
  
 **Post comment to**   _doctoredevidence_  
  
John, I’m going to get some help. If you can see this message just stay there and wait for me. Don’t try to move.  
  
<><><><><><><><><><><><>  
  
  
John had never felt this kind of cold before. The room seemed to be vibrating, but he realised it must be his own violent shaking. His jaw is locked and aching and every muscle is in spasm. It has taken the pain of his wound right away from its prime position and left it a very poor second in terms of sheer agony.  
  
His skin  _hurt_.  
  
“God,” he muttered through his teeth, trying in vain to focus his eyes, “I prove ‘im ri’ all the time now.” His eyes finally locked onto his laptop, sitting dark-screened and silent on the coffee table. “Idiot,” he finished in a faint voice, too weary to emit much more. He moved his hand to cover the padded dressing over his wound – too little too late. Maybe he should ring for an ambulance?  
  
“Why bother?” he whispered shakily. “Why–”  
  
Passing out against the sofa was a relief of sorts.  
  
<><><><><><><><><><><><>  
  
  
There was a warm hand on his forehead. Who was it? John struggled to open his eyes: they felt like they’d been glued shut and his eyes streamed tears as the lids parted.  
  
“Oh, shi–” he croaked out. The room was dark and he couldn’t see who was leaning over the bed. How did he get to his bed?  
  
“Have some water.”  
  
It was a man and he was whispering. He held a cool glass of water against John’s lips, tilting it slowly until John could sip it.  
  
“Do you want to sit up?” the man whispered again.  
  
“Yes,” John answered, leaning up on one elbow. The bedding slid down and he saw he was dressed in a clean vest and pants. The last time he was conscious he’d been wearing a t-shirt and flannel pajamas. His head swam and his whole body tilted sideways.  
  
“Careful. You’ve been out for a while,” the man’s whispering voice cautioned. His hand was strong against John’s shoulder as he helped him back onto the pillows.  
  
“How did you get in? How long have you been here?”  
  
“I have my ways,” the man replied evasively, backing away from the bed. “I’ve been here long enough to help you begin to recover from your infection.”  
  
“You knew about that? How?” John queried, beginning to panic that this stranger could seemingly enter his flat at will, and knew enough about his private life that he knew when John was sick. “Oh my fucking God. You’re the hacker,” John breathed, heart threatening to jump out of his chest. “I want you out of here before I call the police,” he added in a more forceful tone, knowing it really didn’t rate as robust after a raging fever, on top of weeks of missed meals and missed sleep.  
  
The man seemed shocked at his order, pausing as he took a chair back to the kitchen breakfast counter. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered faintly, “How could you think that I would–” His swallow was more audible than his voice. He finished moving the chair back and returned to John’s bedside.  
  
“I will stay until you are strong enough to look after yourself.”  
  
John realised that even if he did want to ring the cops, he didn’t know where his phone was. Considering that he was rather expecting to die last time he was conscious and aware of his surroundings, maybe he should be grateful for the man’s care. He’d been picking up a used syringe and discarded gauze, enduring John’s scrutiny without much concern. John noticed he was careful to keep his face turned away from John as much as possible.  
  
Was he afraid that John would recognize him? Suddenly overcome with fatigue, John leant his head back and promptly fell asleep.  
  



	7. Chapter 7

7.

 

The fingers that brushed against his forehead were cool and John blinked awake, completely alert for the first time in what felt like days. Darkness obscured the figure and face of the man that leaned over him, even so John saw that he was wearing a surgical mask to further hinder John’s efforts to identify him. It had to be the same unidentified intruder that had refused to leave before. How long ago had that been?

 

Not really expecting a reply, John rasped, “Who are you?”

 

The man shook his head slightly in negation and held out a glass of water. John took it from his grasp, fumbling with hands that still shook. His fingers slid over those cool, sure fingers and he noticed their thinness and length absently. John gulped greedily from the glass, coughing as the water hit the dry membranes at the back of his throat and nose – he felt like he could happily immerse himself in a lake and drink it down.

 

“That’s good,” he said breathily after finishing the water. John held out the empty glass and his silent visitor took it. John scratched at a twinge inside his left elbow, his nails finding a small dressing there. He frowned at the distant realisation that his uninvited visitor had given him at least one injection – perhaps more.

 

“Other than injecting me with antibiotics, why are you here?” John asked, holding a futile hope of an answer. Again the man shook his head, the movement discernable in the dim glow from the edges of the drawn curtains. John sighed. “This is very one-sided,” he complained, “And I need to use the toilet.”

 

“I should have given you a catheter,” the man whispered softly, shaking his head once more.

 

“I’m glad you didn’t,” John responded, “I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.”

 

The visitor ceased all movement and turned his face towards John. John’s heart lurched with anticipation but, no, the shadow fell directly over his face at that angle and he could barely see the gleam of the man’s eyes. For all that, John could somehow discern his curiousity and felt compelled to elaborate.

 

“I had a post-op infection. A couple of years ago, when I was–”

 

“Afghanistan.”

 

It was a barely-there murmur, but it made John blink – the word like a slap across his face. How…? Oh, his blog. No mystery there. His military experience was a matter of public record. John’s heartbeat steadied and he released a breath.

 

The man helped John to sit up and lower his legs to the floor. His thigh throbbed steadily as he clambered upright. His leg almost buckled at the first step, and his mystery helper tightened his grip around John’s upper arm. “Careful,” he hissed down at John, and for the first time John noticed how much taller the man was than him.

 

He felt a flash of anger at the manhandling he was enduring as he shuffled towards the small bathroom. “Why do you fucking care whether I fall over or not?” John shrugged off the man’s handhold and limped into the bathroom, pointedly closing the door in the man’s masked face. He turned the light on in defiance of his visitor’s desire for the dark. It had to be someone he already knew, or maybe he’d won the jackpot and attracted a complete nutter who was biding his time before murdering him while he slept. John leant against the door and fought a wave of dizziness while his eyes adjusted to the light.

 

“Shit,” he cursed himself belatedly. He’d closed the door too quickly to try and recognise the man in the light shining from the bathroom.

 

First a piss, then he needed to find his phone. Maybe the time had come to contact Greg, or even Mycroft. He frowned as he braced himself over the toilet bowl. He mentally transposed Lestrade, then Mycroft Holmes, over the shape and posture of his hacker-cum-good Samaritan. They simply didn’t fit into his shape, and their mannerisms excluded them. Nor would they feel it necessary to hide themselves from John with a mask. It wouldn’t have worked for long, anyway – their gait and builds were distinctive.

 

John reached for the flush and wobbled alarmingly over the bowl. “Don’t flush yourself down the loo, Watson,” he gasped, groping for the basin to steady himself. He leant heavily and concentrated on breathing and swallowing down the nausea that threatened to send him back to the toilet bowl heaving a whole lot of nothing. That would be disgusting. That would be–

 

John staggered quickly as the urge to vomit hit him full force. The small room echoed with the sound of his heaving and John could hear the distant sound of knocking over the rushing of blood in his ears. He had a home invader who treated him for an infection and _knocked on the bloody loo door?_

 

He didn’t have time to laugh at the incongruity. He didn’t see the door open, didn’t see the face that took in his form slumped on the bathroom floor and didn’t know who it was that tenderly felt the burgeoning lump on his forehead where John’s skull had met the unyielding porcelain of the toilet bowl on his way to the floor.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

8.

 

John’s return to consciousness was rude, sudden and completely disorientating.

 

“What–” he began, the word feeling odd in his mouth and sounding breathless in his ears. His head throbbed and he tried to make sense of what he could see. There was an uncomfortable pressure across his abdomen and he couldn’t move his arms. Someone’s – his uninvited guest’s, no doubt – shirt-clad back filled his vision. With effort he found he could move one of his arms. He pushed against the back – he was so close to it that the shirt clothing it was rubbing his cheek.

 

“Hell… What are you–?” A wiry arm clamped down hard across the backs of John’s knees. “Stop… wriggling!” came a harshly whispered command. Confirmation: the stranger was carrying John over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

 

“Put me down,” John groaned against the man’s back. His head felt like it might explode with any more dangling upside down. “I think I’m concussed.”

 

There was a faint sigh. “Amongst other things…”

 

John frowned, trying to clear his mind and make some sense of this comment. He gave up at another spike of pain and nausea. “Oh, fuck.”

 

The man lowered John carefully onto his bed and John collapsed back gratefully. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, gingerly moving to lie on his side. “I feel like shit warmed over.”

 

He was barely conscious of the stranger’s presence and yelped when the man pressed an ice pack to John’s forehead. After the first shock of cold, it did seem to help minimise the throbbing ache. John drifted on a tide of exhaustion and pain, strangely content to leave himself in the stranger’s care. He felt the man tie a tea towel around the ice pack to hold it in place against his head and then… silence and stillness.

 

He slept.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

 

Waking up to face Mycroft Holmes sitting at his bedside was one of the more unwelcome experiences of John’s life. He frowned at both Mycroft’s presence and his persistent headache.

 

“Bugger,” he sighed, struggling to sit upright on his bed. The pain in his leg was a distant sensation compared to immediacy of his throbbing headache.

 

“Good afternoon to you too, John,” Mycroft said with irritating calm. “How are you?”

 

It was afternoon? John wondered what day it was. He did his best not to telegraph his confusion to the man sitting near his bed.

 

“None of your business,” John muttered and bit back a groan at the spike of pain that shot through his skull. He leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Purely a social call. Happened to be in the neighbourhood–”

 

John snorted. Mycroft would have _no_ business in this neighbourhood.

 

“Thought I’d see how you were getting on,” Mycroft finished, the smirk disappearing from his voice. “You’ve been unwell.”

 

“Stating the obvious,” John commented, opening his eyes a sliver to study Mycroft. “You’re … concerned?”

 

“Of course I am. Why would that surprise you?”

 

“Have you been watching me?” John asked, his temper beginning to stir. He’d had enough of the damned secret surveillance! “Did you hire someone to hack my account? Come into my flat and interfere with my life?”

 

Mycroft’s expression cycled through puzzlement and annoyance. “Indeed I did not, John. I merely observed you from a distance – no more than I would have before–” Mycroft trailed off uncomfortably.

 

John frowned at him, trying to ignore his headache and puzzle out the meaning of Mycroft’s awkwardness. Was it guilt? He must feel a great deal of remorse and regret over his role in Sherlock’s downfall.

 

His suicide.

 

 _God_.

 

John had forgotten, however briefly, how much it hurt to think about Sherlock. About the loss of the man he’d come to admit, if only to himself, he’d been in love with.

 

“Just leave, Mycroft,” John said without heat. He was so tired. His eyelids slipped shut and he sagged back against the pillows. “Leave me alone.”

 

“As you wish, John.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “I’ve taken the liberty of leaving you some supplies. I would consider it a personal favour if you’d make free use of them.”

 

John listened to the sounds of Mycroft rising from the chair and walking to the door. There was a pause and John waited for the sound of Mycroft exiting.

 

“I hope you realise that I’m always available if you ever feel the need to just… talk. Anytime, John.”

 

The door opened and closed.

 

Silence.

 

John slept.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

John woke to the dazzle of a shaft of morning sun slanting across his face. He squinted at the window wondering why it looked strange, why the room looked wholly unfamiliar.

The curtains were open. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the curtains open.

He’d lost count of the days he’d spent inside the flat. He knew it couldn’t have been that long since he hadn’t lost an enormous amount of weight. Although…

He looked down at his ribs, easily discernable through his vest. John stood carefully, testing his balance. He felt hollowed out – light as air and just as insubstantial. He was wary of the feeling of elation that surged through him. Yeah, alright, it was nice to still be alive, but not very long ago his continued existence hadn’t really mattered that much. No, this was a false feeling and he might crash very soon if he wasn’t careful.

John walked slowly to the small kitchen. He ran the tap, marveling at the sound, the smell, the damned sight of the water flowing into the sink. After some seconds, and feeling ten different kinds of fool, he filled a glass and drank long and deep.

He opened the fridge and stared in dismay at the amount of foodstuffs arrayed on the shelves. Bloody hell. He couldn’t possibly eat it all.

“This says more about you than me, Mycroft,” John muttered with a grim smile. He shoved a few packages aside and finally settled on a custard dessert. He filled the kettle, flipped the switch to boil, took out a clean mug and a teabag, tore the lid off the custard and slurped it down with enthusiasm while he waited for the water to boil.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

 **Post entry to** _doctoredevidence_

I don’t know if you’re reading this… So, anyway. I’m still here, alive and kicking.

I’m not sure how I feel about what you did. I can’t quite make up my mind, but I think – with time – I will be grateful. So, thanks. I suppose that you’ve given me time to get better, and I think that I will. I was angry with you, I was afraid of you, and then angry all over again. But now, I think just knowing that someone was interested enough in my welfare, my survival (and not just another journo looking for “an insider’s story of Sherlock Holmes’ demise”) enough to go to that much trouble to help me, well – it helps. I can see by the prescriptions that you left here that the surgery is over on the other side of London (and I have no idea how you swung a house-call for me), so it means something to me that you would do that on my behalf (and somehow manage NOT to get me sectioned – how did you do that?) with no expectation of gratitude or recompense from me.

I don’t know why you did it, I don’t know who you are, though I expect I should. I won’t ask you to reveal yourself now because I have to respect that you have your reasons for hiding your identity. I hope that you will let me know who you are in the future, or, if I know you already I hope you can trust me enough to tell me it was you who stepped in to help me when I couldn’t, wouldn’t, help myself.

I won’t thank you for leaving my door unlocked when you left: afterwards, I had an unwelcome visit from someone I would rather not speak to again. (I assume the door was unlocked. Lock-picking is far too gauche for Mycroft.)

I don’t know if I will be posting much here anymore, there are some things I need to get done and I will be busy. I thought about seeing my therapist again, but, strangely, I don’t think I need to now. Things are much clearer in my mind and, though I’m still grieving and miss him horribly (I always will), there’s so much to do. I can’t waste any more time ripping myself apart to no purpose. I need London, and London needs me alive and functioning.

Sherlock didn’t like illogic. He didn’t like waste or sentiment either. I’ve been behaving in ways that he would have been, not just confused and baffled by, but disapproving of. He wouldn’t have thanked me for it.

He might have been oddly fascinated by my latest scar.

 

John closed the lid on his laptop and pushed it over the newspaper on the coffee table. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. He dropped his right hand to rub gently over his right thigh, tracing the shape of the raised skin that still tingled.

He picked up his phone.

“Hi, Greg. It’s John.”


	10. Chapter 10

10.

 

The pub was just the right side of noisy: a steady murmur of sound that didn’t impede conversation. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade looked bone weary to John, his slumped shoulders giving him a dejected demeanour. His eyes were as sharp and inquisitive as usual though. John did his best to project nothing of his recent turmoil.

 

“Heard you moved out of Baker Street,” Greg commented. At John’s raised brows he added, “Mrs Hudson,” by way of explanation.

 

“Oh. Yes.”

 

“I suppose, with all that clutter and… the memories, it would be–”

 

John gave a short nod, his eyes sliding away from the DI’s. “Yeah.” He frowned, conceding, “Although, I’m not sure how much it helped when I moved out.”

 

Greg gave a small nod. “We take our misery with us where ever we go, don’t we?”

 

John was reminded of Lestrade’s protracted divorce. He felt a bit guilty that he hadn’t given it much thought at the time. He’d been preoccupied with Sherlock and the ever-present threat from Moriarty. He nodded in agreement, “True enough.” He took a swig from his beer glass and decided to give a damn about somebody else for once. “How’s it been at the Met?”

 

“Ah.” Greg raised his glass and John watched his throat move as he swallowed a mouthful of beer. “Interesting times.”

 

John nodded, wondering if he should push for details. He’d been so out of touch with the latest news – he didn’t know if Lestrade had been disciplined or not.

 

“I’ve been suspended while they check the last twelve months of investigations my team handled,” Greg added.

 

“Just those cases Sherlock assisted with, surely?” John asked with a frown.

 

“Don’t forget that you were also assisting, John – and, no, they reserve the right to overview any case I worked over the past year.”

 

John was astonished. “But, why?” Unless they thought Lestrade was part of some conspiracy even more improbable than the one invented by Moriarty…

 

“If Sherlock was bent then what’s to say I’m not just as bent?”

 

“That’s fucking ridiculous!”

 

Greg shrugged. “No more than the notion that Sherlock went around committing crimes to solve for us.”

 

“You never believed it then?” John murmured, fingers tight around his pint glass.

 

“Of course not. I just didn’t have the chance to counter their claim that he was a fraud,” Greg sighed and gazed unseeingly at the mid evening crowd gathering inside the pub.

 

John swallowed thickly, remembering the relentless pace of those last few days before Sherlock’s death. He nodded and drank the rest of his beer quickly. “Another?” he gestured at Lestrade’s glass.

 

Greg leant back and huffed out a breath. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, why not? Not like I have to get up early for work, eh?”

 

John nodded and moved to get his wallet out.

 

“Which reminds me: what are you doing for rent money these days?” asked Greg.

 

John grimaced. Sarah had eventually contacted him after he’d thought to charge up his mobile, lying neglected for three days between the sofa cushions. In a kind voice she’d told him to come back once he’d ‘sorted himself out’. In a way he’d been relieved that she hadn’t offered to help him do just that.

 

“Um, as it happens, nothing at the moment,” he shrugged. “I’ll have to put some feelers out for some casualty shifts. I’m not doing any days at the clinic now.”

 

Lestrade’s expressive eyebrows twitched upwards again.

 

John wooshed out a breath and cleared his throat. “It’s a long story,” he began.

 

Greg held up a forestalling hand. “I’d better get this round. And a packet of smokes to go with it.”

 

John nodded, resigning himself to confiding the details of his recent encounter with his computer hacker-cum-emergency caregiver.

 

He thought about taking up smoking.

 

 


End file.
